


Moving Pictures

by SpaceWall



Series: Ineffable Soulmate AUs [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Speculation about the nature of the universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 14:37:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19993849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceWall/pseuds/SpaceWall
Summary: From the moment of its creation, the Angel knew who it was destined to love. Getting there is the trouble.Or,God is Not Helping, Crowley would like some clarity in this situation, and Aziraphale is not on the same page but he is reading the right book.





	Moving Pictures

**Author's Note:**

> In the interests of full disclosure, this fic is purely compliant with show canon. I’ve tagged it with the book because I’ve been reading Discworld in order, finally, and am trying very hard to capture something of Terry Pratchett in my work. 
> 
> Title is also because I’ve been reading Discworld and I think I’m very funny. Credit where credit’s due and all that.

The Angel came into being. It didn’t have a name then. It also did not have a gender. (Gender and pronouns not having been invented yet, it did not take offence (also not yet invented) to being referred to as an ‘it’. In fact, this is what it called itself). It came into being, and all it knew was that it was an Angel. Others were older, but by fractals of time spinning off each other that manifested in such a way as to have none of them (save one) ever really existed without others. 

My Children, She said, inventing gender at this precise moment to convey what She was. (She isn’t necessarily an accurate translation, but it will have to do for mortal minds).

At this point, which was not yet really a point, time was invented. (Also space, but there’s not much of a difference, really). Thus, the first (nothing can be first without time) thing the Angel heard was its (It was not sure about this whole gender thing yet) name. 

Names were new, then, and rare and precious as the stars. It received its name, and was honoured to have it. It was a lovely name, and a private one, and it would mind if I shared with you greatly so I shan’t. 

The second thing the Angel received was its soulmate, and that was where the trouble started, really. 

The trouble with angelic soulmates (demonic soulmates came later, of course, but were equally troublesome) was that they were a prototype. They had all the flaws of mortal soulmates, plus a few unique bugs all of their own. Sometimes, they noted events so far in the future that the bearer had no hope of deducing their meaning. Other times, they were just vague. 

It was this latter category that gave the Angel trouble. When he (this pronoun, he’d decided, suited him best. If he was wrong, he supposed he could always change it. She had, and would again before the end) was corporeal, his soulmate made themselves known as a single pair of angel’s wings. 

These were not specific wings, either. Many angels had specific wings. Michael, most prominently. No, these could have been anybody’s wings. The Angel hoped his soulmate had something better, and tried not to worry about it. Quietly, he became bitter about this hand he’d been dealt. Others were bitter too, and they clustered together. Not for the purpose of rebellion, you must understand. They wanted the comfort that comes from shared discomfort, and they received it, until they didn’t. 

Angels, in general, have a tendency towards determinism. Thus, having pre-assigned romantic partners didn’t tend to bother them the way it does humans. Unfortunately, the flip side of this fact was that they found it much harder to choose to avoid their soulmates when it was bothering them. Humans, even in the bible, have all sorts of precedent for avoiding their soulmates. When Lucifer decided he was sick of being told who to love, it was an unacceptable breach of protocol. 

Accordingly, he sought out those who were as discontented as he was. 

When they Fell, God, in Her infinite wisdom, had to decide what to do with their marks. In the end, the answer was simple. Those who had souls (or graces, in this case) left marks. Those who didn’t, didn’t. 

The Demon, who had a name by this point, if not one he liked, wore his mark constantly. All demons who still had marks did. They didn’t have any choice in the matter. (Matter, in fact, was the root of the issue. Demons were made of more of it than angels were. Accordingly, their matter was marked.) They could, however, choose where the thing was displayed. The Demon, who preferred to be thought unmarked, the destiny-free match of another demon, usually wore his on the bottom of his foot. Unless he didn’t have feet, in which case he wore it on the inside of his mouth. This technique had taken some effort to perfect, but, in his estimation, he was quite good at it. 

Life went on. It was just beginning to go, but it did so with verve and vigor. The Demon decided, in a professional capacity, to help it along. He did so rather successfully, and this was the start of a great deal of trouble for everyone involved. 

In the course of all this trouble the Demon gained several things. In no particular order they were these:

1) Several commendations  
2) A name he actually liked when people said it out loud  
3) A car  
4) Someone he actually liked to say the name  
5) Sunglasses  
6) Holy Water (1 thermos)  
7) Several dozen haircuts  
8) Several hundred meals  
9) The Antichrist

Somehow, this last item sometimes seemed to be the least of his problems. Partly because he’d misplaced it for a decade and change, but mostly because the rest of his problems stemmed from item 4: Aziraphale.

Aziraphale, presumably, had a soulmate. Not every angel did, Michael representing numerous exceptions, but they were the majority just as the majority of demons didn’t. He and Crowley never discussed this matter. This was probably because whoever it was had left him alone on Earth for 6000 years and was therefore an asshole. 

It didn’t bother Crowley, precisely, knowing Aziraphale had a soulmate who wasn’t him. What bothered him was that Aziraphale had a soulmate who treated him so badly. If anyone in the world had ever deserved the love and certainty of a soulmate, it was Aziraphale. This only became more clear after he became Aziraphale. Crowley has expected to be met by at least one sorrowful face at his- Aziraphale’s- execution. By one face who wasn’t in the process of executing him, at bare minimum. Instead, there were only the authorities. His soulmate hadn’t come. 

The trouble was, somewhere in all of this, Crowley had fallen in love with Aziraphale. He couldn’t have said when, or where, but somewhere between the first rain and the Blitz, he’d found a part of himself that valued Aziraphale more than anyone in this world. The idea that anyone could fail to do so was, to him, inconceivable. He was funny, and empathetic, and beautiful in a way that was both very human and not human at all. That he was not Crowley’s soulmate- just because demon’s soulmates lose their marks doesn’t mean they forget them, after all. If they were soulmates, Aziraphale would know- had never factored into the decision at all. Crowley was more than happy to risk walking into Heaven itself for Aziraphale’s sake.

The mark was on the being, not on their corporeal form. Crowley, as Aziraphale, hid his under his tongue. Aziraphale as Crowley presumably did something similar. The mark didn’t like being inside rather than outside. It wanted to be seen, but Crowley wouldn’t let it. Even though it burned like a sacred thing, he kept it hidden and didn’t flinch. The snake, who had a jaw that unhinged, didn’t mind having its mark in its mouth, but Aziraphale’s body certainly did. It screamed at Crowley all the way until they swapped back. 

It might have stopped screaming once Crowley returned it to his foot, but after the apocalypse, Crowley’s mark became… rebellious. At every opportunity, it slid to a more visible location, usually on his neck, just opposite the snake tattoo. Sometimes as ostentatious a place as his face or hands. This shouldn’t have been possible, and it made him look extremely suspicious to anyone who noticed.. Human marks certainly didn’t move. As far as Crowley knew, angel marks didn’t move either. 

A few centuries ago, he’d have sought answers from one of his own kind. Now there was only one source to turn to. 

He found Aziraphale in the bookshop, in the expected turn of events. The shop was open, but it was two in the morning, so any customers knowing it was open seemed unlikely. Since the apocalypse, Aziraphale had been letting more people in. (Not to be clear, that he ever allowed any of these people to transform into customers). Crowley suspected this was out of some weird desire to see the products of their success that could have been fulfilled by a trip to any park or coffeeshop. 

“Crowley?” The Angel said, looking up from the book he was examining on his desk. “Is it that time already?”

Yes, of course, they’d had plans for dinner some time this week. “No, Angel.” 

Although punctuality had never been Crowley’s calling card, it was rather less common for him to arrive unexpectedly than one might think. Very few people expected him at all, except for Aziraphale, and for reasons Crowley could not fully articulate, bothering Aziraphale had never pleased him much. As a general rule, he only did so when something exciting was happening. 

“What is it?” Aziraphale asked, as aware of this fact as Crowley was. 

Crowley should have told him everything then, but something stopped him. The truth was, Crowley liked the fact they never discussed their marks. He liked the illusion that there was such a thing as ‘their side’, and that She might have allowed that. Instead, therefore, he opened his mouth and said:

“Does Adam have a Soulmate?” 

Aziraphale blinked very purposefully. He was the only person Crowley had ever known to make an art of being struck speechless. In the continued pursuit of this craft, he stammered his way through a few lines before coming up with an answer. 

“The better question is: does Adam’s soulmate?” 

This was indeed a better distraction from the topic at hand than Crowley had anticipated. “I suppose they must, now- the boy did declare himself to be mostly human, after all.”

How human was human enough to have a soul? How angelic was angelic enough to have a grace? Crowley wasn’t, even now, but maybe She thought otherwise. Was that why his mark kept wanting to fight him? He hoped not. 

Sighing a long-suffering sigh, Aziraphale carefully placed a fabric bookmark on his page and folded it closed. The title, now revealed, read, “A Monster Calls” . Crowley tried to decide if this was symbolic or not. 

“Does it have to be a bad thing if his soulmate doesn’t have a mark?” Aziraphale’s tone was wrong, but Crowley couldn’t put his finger on why. He carefully removed his glasses to see Aziraphale more clearly, but this didn’t help. He put the glasses on Aziraphale’s desk.

“I think so,” Crowley told him. As someone who would never find his soulmate because he didn’t have a soul, Crowley felt inclined to judge. “Might mean that he’s just biding his time.”

Aziraphale wasn’t looking at him. That never ended well. “Because he doesn’t have a soulmate, what? He can’t love humans?”

Aziraphale tried so hard to see the good in people. “Because he doesn’t have a soul, Angel. Read between the lines a little, for Someone’s sake. It means that no matter how powerful he is, he can’t change what he is. She still doesn’t think he’s a person!” 

That shut him up. It wasn’t really the effect Crowley had been going for, though. Instead, Aziraphale only looked sad. 

“Don’t feel bad,” Crowley ordered. Part of him wanted to reach out and stroke Aziraphale’s short hair. Another part wanted to shake him until he stopped looking so sad. Crowley ignored both impulses. “It’s just… well, you know what I mean, I am what I am.” (Crowley had never uttered a sentence less likely to make someone know what he meant.) “it’s not really about you, Angel.” 

The Angel’s blinking intensified. “Crowley,” he said slowly, “you do know that I don’t have a soulmate, don’t you?”

The dumbstruck look on Crowley’s face spoke for him. Aziraphale put his head in his hands. (This was not a gesture common to angels, who normally had far too many eyes to cover them with just one pair of hands. Aziraphale had picked it up on earth several decades earlier, and found he rather liked it.) 

Crowley, for one of the only occasions in his very long life, found himself begging his leave and fleeing from Aziraphale like several hellhounds were behind him. (In Crowley’s imagination, these hellhounds were somewhat larger and more intimidating than Dog was of late.) Where had he parked? He hated this uncertainty. He hated the fact that he’d been so ignorant and stupid. Aziraphale’s soulmate wasn’t some angel who’s been ignoring him. It was some demon. That was why Aziraphale hadn’t thought to mention it when sending Crowley in his place. He’d known nobody would be expecting to see his mark. 

It had been one thing when Crowley had thought Aziraphale and some Angel had been mutually ignoring each other. In his mind, there had always been a certain hope that Aziraphale had purposefully left the other angel when he came to Earth. That might have made him Crowley’s, if not by mark than by choice. Now he knew for certain that Aziraphale had had no choice in the matter at all. His soulmate had been like Lucifer, disaffected and rejecting him intentionally. Like Crowley himself had done to someone. The thought of his actions hurting Aziraphale like that made him suddenly sick. 

That opened the door to another possibility entirely. The sickness grew so intense that Crowley had to sit against the hood of the Bentley. His keys were… somewhere, it didn’t matter. His rebelling mark asserted itself on his cheek. It was as unhelpful as it had ever been. 

Crowley’s mark was an angel. That was all it had ever had to tell him. An angel. Your angel. That was all She thought he needed to know. There was really only one candidate, in light of the situation. 

Fuck. (There are few situations in this world where a 6000-and-some year old problem could be summarized with one word. This was one of them.)

Crowley stood up again. He could feel his heart beating in his whole body. As a demon whose heart didn’t even need to beat, this was somewhat surprising. 

The trouble wasn’t that Crowley couldn’t imagine a life with Aziraphale. He could. In fact, the trouble was that he could imagine a life with Aziraphale that they’d never shared. He rather thought they could have spent a happy eternity together. If only he’d known. He would never have fallen. Even if he had, he might at least have spent a great deal more time with Aziraphale. Treating him well. As his soulmate. 

“Fuck you,” Crowley amended, since he had fallen and therefore could say such things to the almighty. “He deserved better than that.” Then, since he really was quite pissed off and had just realized he wasn’t wearing his glasses, “I hope you had a good laugh at our expense. Were we more or less amusing than Lucifer and Michael? Please, I’d love to know.” 

She didn’t answer, even as Crowley stretched his arms out beside him, leaning towards the sunny sky like a man possessed. He closed his eyes, partially so nobody could see them, partially in a gesture of uncharacteristic faith. (Those who did see them universally thought he was wearing colour contacts, and didn’t pay it much notice, except in one case where the viewer tutted liberally to her knitting group about the things young people do with their bodies.) 

He stood there for maybe thirty seconds before a familiar pair of hands came up and slid his glasses back into place. Jerking his head down, Crowley stared into bright and careful eyes. Then, Aziraphale’s fingers trailed downwards to trace over the black ink of his mark, and Crowley let his eyelids slide shut again.

“You foolish thing.” There was a fondness to his voice. “Why didn’t you ever say?”

It was a good question. “Why didn’t you?” 

(This was a good question, too.)

“I thought you were blank too,” Aziraphale explained. “It had crossed my mind that you wanted me- I’m not an idiot- but I never thought that we might-”

Crowley kissed him, right there in the middle of London. Pedestrians parted around them like particularly irritable water. After a breath, Aziraphale kissed him back, pushing Crowley’s glasses off over his head and fisting a hand at the base of his hair. His thighs pressed against the hood of his car. Crowley shivered. Then, with a flagrant misuse of his occult gifts, he took the both of them back to Aziraphale’s shop. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, as Aziraphale leaned back against one of the bookshelves and caught his breath. “I didn’t know. I didn’t understand what it meant, and I’m an idiot.” Aziraphale closed his eyes as if in prayer. “I thought you had someone else, some angel, and he-” (Crowley knew Aziraphale. There had never been any question it had been a ‘he’) “-hurt you or left you or- I never wanted to do that.”

Eyes drifting open, Aziraphale gave him a hungry look. “I forgive you,” he said. Crowley, despite forgiveness being in opposition to his nature, did not protest. 

When Aziraphale crossed the bookshop to get a better taste of the inside of Crowley’s mouth, he did not protest either.

**Author's Note:**

> So, that. Please, comment! I like responding to things and geeking out with people. Tell me what you think Aziraphale’s mark was before he lost it. 
> 
> A Monster Calls is a 2011 novel by Patrick Ness (concept by Siobhan Dowd) about a young boy who has a monster that visits him. (Spoilers, I guess: his mother has terminal cancer and his father is distant and a jerk). It’s not nearly as apt as Crowley thinks.


End file.
